The Flag Captain

indeed a symbol, but not as described by Broughton. To the admiral she represented the very beginning of his misfortune, almost from the moment he had hoisted his flag at the foremast.

He said, “I believe that Captain Herrick’s discovery of the Auriga was a pure accident, sir. Just as his arrival here was totally unexpected, so too the enemy would have been surprised.”

Broughton tore his mind from some inner thought. “So?”

“Our departure from Gibraltar was seen, and we have been sighted by other enemy ships, and some which we might not even have known were there.” He persisted, seeing the returning hostility in Broughton’s eyes. “After all, sir, why should Auriga come here?”

“I have no more idea of that than you, Bolitho.” His voice was icy. “But I am going to find and take her. When we return to the fleet it will be as a complete squadron. One which will be ready to re-enter the Mediterranean and act with the full authority at my disposal!”

He made as if to walk away and then added, “Inform me the moment you sight Coquette! ” Then he strode beneath the poop.

Bolitho walked to the rail and stood looking down at the

sailmaker and his mates squatting on every square foot of deck, needles flashing while they carried out their endless repairs to some of the canvas. Everywhere around and above him there were men at work. Splicing and greasing, reeving new lines or merely putting a touch of paint where it was most needed. A squad of marines was climbing heavily to the foretop to do their drill at a swivel gun, and on the larboard gangway he saw Pascoe in close conversation with Meheux.

All this was what Broughton had failed to see. He saw all these men as some sort of threat, or a form of weakness which might imperil his own set plans. Yet here was the true strength, without which any ship was just timber and cordage. Broughton spoke often enough of loyalty, but he had failed to realise that it was merely another word for trust. And trust was two-sided, not the personal possession of one man.

He looked up sharply as Tothill called, “Gunfire, sir!”

Bolitho pressed his hand on the rail and leaned forward, straining his ears above the constant shipboard sounds. There it was, very faint, like surf booming in a deep cave. But it would be faint, with the wind so strong across the larboard quarter.

Trute, who was carrying a tray of empty mugs, was almost knocked from his feet as Broughton burst from beneath the poop, his face contorted with sudden agitation. He was hatless, and still carrying a pen in his hand like a baton.

“Did you hear that?” He peered round at the swaying figures of the watchkeepers. “Well, did you?” He crossed to Bolitho’s side, his eyes slitted in the sunlight. “What price your damn caution now?”

Bolitho watched him impassively. He was more relieved than angered by Broughton’s tirade. With luck, Gillmor could disable the Auriga or even take her completely within the hour, and then this escapade would be over.

He said to Keverne, “Tell the masthead to report the instant he sights them.”

Tothill said, “Sir, Impulsive is signalling.”

Broughton glared at him. “I suppose your friend Herrick will expect all the credit for it!”

Bolitho took a glass and levelled it towards the distant two-decker. She had turned slightly, and he could see her leaning heavily to the wind, her masthead pendant as straight as a pike.

Tothill scrambled into the shrouds, his large telescope swaying about like an unruly cannon. His lips moved soundlessly, and when he looked down at the quarterdeck his face seemed very pale.

“Impulsive to Flag, sir. Strange sail bearing west by north.”

“Acknowledge!”

Bolitho turned to the admiral who was still bending his head to catch the far-off sounds of gunfire.

He said, “Did you hear that, sir?”

Broughton stared at him. “Of course I did! I’m not bloody deaf!”

The masthead lookout’s voice made him start. “Deck there! Sail fine on the larboard bow, sir! I kin see flashes!”

Broughton rubbed his hands. “We’ll have Auriga to heel any minute now!”

“I think we should detach Impulsive to investigate the other sighting, sir.” It was like speaking to a deaf man. It was obvious Broughton could think of nothing but the two frigates fighting it out on the sea’s edge.

Tothill again. “From Impulsive, sir. Estimate four strange sail.”

For the first time Broughton seemed to tear himself away from his anxiety over the Auriga.

“Four? Where the hell are they coming from?”

Impulsive had shortened sail and was growing smaller as she fell astern of the squadron’s line. Bolitho bit his lip hard and was thankful for Herrick’s initiative. To proceed like this was sheer madness. The newcomers, and they could only be hostile, were coming down towards the squadron’s flank with full advantage of the wind. If Herrick could ascertain exactly what they were about,

there might still be time to put Broughton’s ships into some sort of order.

Keverne said, “Gunfire seems to have stopped, sir.”

“Good.” Broughton was frowning. “Now we shall see.”

Captain Giffard remarked, “Pity Coquette is so far ahead. We could use her now to spy out the land, eh, sir?”

Bolitho saw the marine recoil as Broughton snapped, “What did you say?”

Before he could repeat it Bolitho swung on Broughton, his eyes suddenly angry. “Damn them, they must have known! I daresay that Brice told what he knew when he was taken, and the rest they guessed.” He knew Broughton was staring at him as if he had gone mad, but continued bitterly, “They sent Auriga to us, knowing what you would do!” He gestured with his good arm across the nettings. “And you did it, sir!”

“What in hell’s name are you babbling about, man?”

Bolitho said flatly, “Auriga was the bait. One which you were unable to ignore because of your own outraged dignity!”

Broughton flushed. “How dare you speak like that? I’ll have you put under arrest, I’ll…”

Tothill’s voice was hushed. “Impulsive to Flag, sir. Strange fleet bearing west by north.”

Bolitho walked slowly to the rail. “Not ships, Sir Lucius, but a fleet.” He turned and looked at him, suddenly very calm. “And now these men whom you despise and have accused of every vice from mutiny to sloth will have to fight and die.” He let the words sink deeply. “For you, sir.”

Tothill said shakily, “Impulsive requests instructions, sir.”

Broughton stared at the pen which he was still gripping in his hand. In a strange tone he murmured, “It was a trap.”

Bolitho kept his eyes on Broughton’s face. “Yes, Colonel Alava was right after all. And the French motives towards Egypt and Africa are every bit as true as he described.” He jerked his head towards the cruising patterns of white-horses. “This battle is

important to the enemy. So important because they know that this one crushing victory, the complete failure on our part to return our presence in the Mediterranean, will be more than enough to pave their way to success!”

Tothill seemed almost fearful to intrude. “From Impulsive, sir. Estimate ten sail of the line.”

Broughton appeared unable to move or react.

Eventually he said thickly, “And fight them we will.” But there was no conviction in his voice.

Bolitho pushed the pity from his mind. “We have no choice in that, sir. They have the advantage, and if we run, can hunt us at leisure until they pin us against the land like moths.” He added bitterly, “No doubt there are other